


Four times Aziraphale tried to get Crowley to pin him to a wall, and one time Aziraphale pinned Crowley instead

by anactoriatalksback



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale has had it up to here, Aziraphale has written Georgette Heyer fanfiction you can't change my mind, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Aziraphale would dearly love to be a Pillow Principality, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Come Eating, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, If only Crowley would take. A Sodding. Hint., Light incidental abuse of Psalm 139, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quite possibly excessive amounts of come eating to be perfectly frank with you, Rimming, Sex in the Bookshop (Good Omens), Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23361652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoriatalksback/pseuds/anactoriatalksback
Summary: In which all Aziraphale wants is to swoon in Crowley's arms, if Crowley would just take. A bloody. Hint.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 89
Kudos: 456
Collections: Aziraphale/Crowley Smut Library, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Four times Aziraphale tried to get Crowley to pin him to a wall, and one time Aziraphale pinned Crowley instead

Aziraphale is a reasonable fellow, and as a reasonable fellow he considers he has reason to be cross.

Not – well, not _cross_ , precisely. But perhaps a little stung.

Aziraphale is a reasonable fellow, with reasonable wants. A loaf of bread [1], a flask of wine[2] and Crowley (and a good edition of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight[3]) beside him, and he does not repine.

No, Aziraphale is a reasonable fellow, with reasonable – even modest – wants, the vast majority of which he can – and usually does – attend to himself, thank you very much. And as to the remaining – well, it is not unreasonable, on occasion, to express a request. A reasonable request, expressed reasonably. And required to be met within an exceedingly reasonable timeframe by Providence[4].

And for the most part, Aziraphale’s very reasonable approach to satisfying his very reasonable wants has worked reasonably well. Swimmingly, even.

But not unfailingly.

And the one deeply inconvenient lacuna in Aziraphale’s otherwise extremely well-ordered inventory of wants is as follows: Aziraphale would like to flutter in Crowley’s arms.

Aziraphale recognises that he is a being of great and puissant majesty and truly eye-watering corporeal strength, and that moreover his vessel is not so designed that ‘fluttering’ is the first thing that comes to mind when contemplating it.

And to such unhandsome carpers Aziraphale has this to say: The desire to flutter in the arms of one’s chosen flutteree is an entirely reasonable one. Aziraphale is a reasonable fellow, and this is a reasonable desire.

The specific form of the fluttering is as follows: Aziraphale would rather like to be pinned to a wall[5] while Crowley glares at him from approximately a millimetre away. While – and this is important – Aziraphale flutters. Or shivers, if all’s going well.

Quakes even, with a bit of luck and a tail-wind.

Swoons, if the stars align and Aziraphale’s very good.

Or – you know – if he’s not.

A reasonable – nay, modest, nay, diffident – desire.

One would think that a celestial being working in close quarters with a wily hereditary enemy, will bent furiously to the all-consuming task of thwarting said hereditary enemy and being thwarted in turn, six millennia of incessant thwarting, of a timepiece set permanently to Thwart O’Clock – well, one would think that in this seething crucible of frustrated intentions, a Principality might reasonably expect to be able to come by the occasional flutter.

One would think.

Entirely reasonably.

But one would be mistaken.

Oh, do not mistake Aziraphale. He would not for the world – this exuberant, slipshod world with its unearned confidence and sushi – give up the stolen glances, the shared crepes and oysters and pomegranate, the long evenings musing the evolutionary benefits of a crocodile’s smile while luxuriating in the gold-flecked inebriation of a really excellent burgundy. Not for the world.

But.

It does seem a little peculiar, a little unnecessary, a little suspicious, even, that in six millennia of plots and counterplots, of coin-tosses and The Arrangement, that not once – not once – in all the corridors they have trodden, or doorways they have ushered each other through, has Aziraphale found himself pressed chest to chest against Crowley, finding the breath he doesn’t need quickening, while …

Aziraphale has read all of Georgette Heyer, and rather too many of her (pale, uninteresting) imitators. He is intimately acquainted with the mechanics of narrow corridors and conveniently-placed doorways, of chests rising and falling with uneven, tortured gasps, of breaths that one didn’t know one was holding. Give Aziraphale the raw material of propinquity, a well-placed doorway and a sturdy wall, and he’s pretty sure he could do the rest.

It’s only – well, it takes two to tango.

And one particular serpent has shown a deeply aggravating inability to dance.

Which seems implausible. Exhibit A: Crowley’s swagger. That louche swaggering sidle, boneless and double-jointed all at once. A snake who’s never entirely gotten the hang of legs as a concept, but whose languid stroll makes every biped look like a millipede who lost its way.

Exhibit B: Crowley’s inability to occupy a chair in anything like a seemly fashion, or failing that, a manner even tangentially related to the technical function of a chair. Crowley drapes himself over arms and backs. He slings his legs over the seat while his head rolls against Aziraphale’s Axminster. He pulls his bony knees up all the way to his ears while the tip of one toe scrapes the ground. He lolls, or lounges, at extravagant oblique angles. He looks like he’s waiting for an odalisque to feed him grapes, or he would if he ever deigned to eat anything.

Exhibit C: Crowley’s ability to ring the changes between masterful and indulgent from one beat of a hummingbird’s wing to the next. For every time Crowley’s loomed over Aziraphale and growled ‘leave it to me, angel’, Aziraphale’s wished ardently for the presence of mind to miracle himself a nice robust wall to swoon against. He’s never contrived it yet, and he’s beginning to wonder if each one of those missed opportunities was his last.

No, Crowley surely knows the steps of the pluck-Aziraphale-up-by-his-lapels-and-fling-him-against-the-nearest-wall dance. He must. He has, so to speak, been showing off his ankles to Aziraphale in this respect for six thousand years.

Surely.

But then how else to explain it?

* * *

Aziraphale is a reasonable fellow, but his limit is fast being reached.

It transpires that Crowley is indeed perfectly capable of pinning Aziraphale to a wall and growling at him. Does it with the ease and facility of one to the manner born, even.

All Aziraphale said, really, was: ‘You know, Crowley, I’ve always thought, deep down, that you really are rather a nice - ’

And then the next few seconds were a maelstrom of snarling teeth and a little _whoomph_ as Aziraphale’s feet momentarily lost contact with the ground and then the impact of an immaculately-preserved solid faux-Georgian-manor wall at Aziraphale’s back and ‘ _Shut it_ ’ growled into Aziraphale’s face from approximately five centimetres away.

It was all rather exciting, really.

Of course, Aziraphale was a little too … distracted … to do very much about it, because oh, oh, _oh_ , here was the death of a dispiriting hypothesis and the glorious resurrection of a much more promising one. Here were teeth and lips and eyes spitting fire behind those thrice-accursed glasses, here – at thrillingly close quarters – was a passion quite apart from wry amusement, or tolerance, or indulgence, or bemusement at Aziraphale’s refusal to keep up with Mods or Rockers or pop or bebop[6]. A passion about which Aziraphale had constructed intricate conjectures, not one of which held a candle to the actuality of Crowley, incandescent with …

Incandescent with…

Incandescent.

And it was directed _at Aziraphale_. In a real, material way, Aziraphale was its target, not just an innocent bystander snatched up in a generalised guess-who-got-up-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-bed-at-the-Roman-banquet grump that he would need to be tempted out of with heaping quantities of oysters[7].

So caught up was Aziraphale, in fact, with the conga line of epiphanies of:

  1. Crowley being capable of Passion[8], with a capital P
  2. Said Passion directed at Aziraphale[9]
  3. And accompanied by thrilling physical business
  4. And spectacular, if rather spivvy, verbal theatrics



So caught up was Aziraphale, in short, that he lacked the wherewithal to make hay, as it were, of the sunshine of Crowley’s wrath.

No, one moment he was looking at Crowley’s thin lips, pulled back from his teeth in a deeply enticing show of ferocity, and the next he was …

Well, he was still looking at Crowley’s thin lips, pulled back from his teeth in a deeply enticing show of ferocity. It was a long moment. And not even artificially prolonged by a well-judged time-freeze from either Aziraphale or Crowley[10].

In any case, one moment Crowley was glaring at him, and the other a pleasant voice was apologising for interrupting an intimate moment and Crowley was snapping his fingers and Aziraphale was – with great ceremony and not a little reluctance – smoothing his lapels and stepping away from that lovely hospitable wall.

Next time, he told himself. Next time I’ll be on the lookout. Next time I’ll know what to do.

Next time.

Now that I know it’s on the table, next time.

* * *

Aziraphale is a reasonable fellow, but this is getting silly.

Ever since he realised the particular set of levers that would spring Crowley’s inner wall-pusher-and-ravager[11], he has been pulling at them whenever he spies an opportune set of circumstances[12].

Once, when Crowley brought him a particularly nice chocolate ganache, he said – draping himself artfully abaft the nearest wall – “I’ve always thought, dear boy, that you really are a terribly nice chap.”

Another time, when Crowley said he had tickets to _A Little Night Music_ , he said – leaning nonchalantly against the same wall – “I’ve always known, my dear, that really are, underneath, an absolute sweetheart.”

Another time, when Crowley gave him a particularly fine Herbert Spenser first edition, he plastered himself to the opposite wall[13] and said, making sure Crowley was looking directly at him, “You could never convince me, dearest, that you are not, deep down, a seething cauldron of gentility.”

Aziraphale will admit that these attempts lacked a certain _je ne sais quoi_.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate. Aziraphale does, in fact, _sait parfaitement quoi_ the attempts lack. Subtlety is an obvious one. Aziraphale is not, in his day-to-day life, given to draping. Or leaning. Or nonchalance. All of these things are far better suited to boneless ex-serpents who are not nearly so very ex as they pretend. _Crowley_ lounges. Crowley would probably need radical surgery and sixty thousand volts of electricity to _keep_ from lounging. Whether in his absurdly tight excuses for trousers with their inch-deep pockets, or the affectations of an eighteenth-century Parisian _incroyable_ , Crowley knows how to lounge.

Aziraphale, on the other hand? His whole being screams at him to stand up straight, to clasp his hands before him, to radiate a respectful alertness. It does, he will admit, make it that leetle bit more difficult to … suggest … to a recalcitrant hereditary enemy the vicinity of the pose one would like to adopt, or better yet, to be … compelled … to adopt. To gesture without gesturing that one is amenable to being picked up by the lapels and tossed about like a ragdoll and pinned – no, _slammed_ , slammed for preference – against a wall and …

Well, it’s difficult.

So Aziraphale will not castigate himself for not quite striking the extremely nice balance between delicacy and clarity.

Especially since, for all their deficiencies in subtlety, another distinguishing feature of all these attempts is their resounding lack of success.

The first time, Crowley paused, drawled ‘shut it’ with unimpeded good humour, and left.

The second time, Crowley paused, cleared his throat, said ‘don’t mention it’ and left.

The third time, Crowley just turned sharply on his heel. And left.

And Aziraphale is a reasonable fellow, but this is fast approaching any reasonable limits.

* * *

Aziraphale is a reasonable fellow, but this is the outside of enough.

Crowley has brought Aziraphale a fragrant, delicately-painted jar of Da Hong Pao. He was in the Wuyi mountains, he says, tempting a monk.

‘You won’t shut up about the stuff,’ he says, ‘so here you are.’

‘Here I am?,’ says Aziraphale, clutching the jar to his bosom. ‘They don’t – the last harvest was more than a decade ago. The last, Crowley. Not the most recent. The _last_.’

Crowley shrugs superbly. ‘Something to dunk your biscuits in.’

‘I don’t - ’ Aziraphale would smack him were it not for the armful of earthy gold he’s cradling protectively. ‘I will not dunk anything in – the very _idea_ , Crowley.’

Crowley grins, a thing of pure fondness. ‘Well, go on then. Make us a cuppa.’

Aziraphale recoils. ‘It – Crowley, this demands an _occasion_.’

‘I brought it for you,’ says Crowley. ‘Occasion enough, isn’t it?’

It’s not, really. Not for the tea. Not for _this_ tea, at any rate.

But, thinks Aziraphale, it might well be occasion for …

‘You know, Crowley,’ says Aziraphale, dropping his voice.

Perhaps a little too far, because Crowley doesn’t appear to have heard him. ‘Temptation went off fine, by the way. Worth celebrating that too, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve always thought - ’

‘Not that it’s all that hard to tempt a monk, really.’

‘I’ve always thought, deep down - ’

‘All that clean living and high altitudes, I suppose.’

‘Deep down, that you’re actually - ’

‘Anyway,’ says Crowley, ‘you should have some of the good Pommery. Why don’t we - ’

‘CROWLEY,’ says Aziraphale, at the top of his voice. Crowley whirls around, nearly dropping his bottle in his surprise.

Aziraphale clears his throat and twitches his lapels into place.

‘You know, Crowley,’ he says, marching to the nearest wall[14] and standing with ramrod stiffness against it, ‘I’ve always thought,’ fixing Crowley with a glare the Ancient Mariner would call a little intense, ‘that deep down, you really are. Rather. A _nice_. Fellow.’

There is quite a long pause. Aziraphale’s chest is heaving in an admirably histrionic manner, and entirely without premeditation. Crowley is frozen in place, clutching a bottle of Pommery to his bony chest and gaping at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale slumps back against the wall[15].

Crowley continues to gape.

Aziraphale stares meaningfully at Crowley.

Crowley continues to gape.

‘A nice fellow,’ says Aziraphale, encouragingly, when the silence grows oppressive.

Crowley continues to gape.

‘Nice,’ says Aziraphale, persevering bravely. He is an ancient being of great and puissant majesty, and he has overcome graver hurdles than a slack-jawed hereditary enemy who appears to have taken his snake lineage so much to heart that he is now doing a sterling impression of a deaf adder.

Crowley continues to gape.

‘N I C E,’ says Aziraphale, enunciating clearly.

Crowley blinks. Aziraphale can see it behind his glasses.

Then he swallows.

Then he says ‘Right.’

Aziraphale straightens hopefully.

‘Right,’ says Crowley again, with such decision that Aziraphale licks his lips, ‘right, I’d better be going.’

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. And then Aziraphale says ‘Going.’

‘Yes,’ says Crowley, looking everywhere but at Aziraphale. ‘I’ll just - ’

‘Going,’ says Aziraphale.

‘Yes, I, I forgot I needed to - ’

‘Going.’

‘People to go, places to see - ’

‘Going.’

‘Enjoy the tea, I’ll - ’

‘Going.’

Crowley takes a breath and manages to look Aziraphale in the eye for one whole entire second before his gaze drops. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Well then,’ he says, ‘I’ll just - ’

And he turns on his heel and takes a half-stride doorwards until Aziraphale intercepts him.

‘Oh no,’ says Aziraphale, ‘oh I rather think not, I’m afraid.’

Crowley coughs. ‘Aziraphale,’ he says, ‘I should - ’

And then Aziraphale picks him up – by the narrow lapels of his Italian jacket – and pins him to the wall.

‘Shut it,’ says Aziraphale, his face five inches from Crowley’s, and kisses him.

Crowley has his mouth open to protest – something – so Aziraphale’s tongue can lick his lips and taste the inside of his mouth unimpeded. It’s wet and hot and urgent and messy and Crowley seems to be trying to say something and Aziraphale licks and nips and presses in until he feels a hand – trembling and unsure – alight on his back.

He pulls away. Crowley’s glasses are askew, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek.

Aziraphale is momentarily stricken. ‘I,’ he says, ‘my dear, I shouldn’t - ’

And he shouldn’t, he thinks, he shouldn’t. Now that the red mist has – momentarily – lifted, his darling, his poor sweet friend, his best enemy, his comrade of angles and slashes and bright sharp grins and unbearable thoughtfulness, his lovely ancient foe, Aziraphale presumed – he seized – he pillaged as though Crowley were every single one of the Sabine women, and now –

‘My dear,’ he says, laying a hand against Crowley’s cheek, ‘my dear, I’m so - ’

And then Crowley grabs Aziraphale – by the lapels – and reels him in.

Their noses bump, their teeth clack together, Aziraphale can feel his cheek scraping against Crowley’s high sharp bone, and then there’s an impatient noise – from him or from Crowley – and Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s chin and moves him where he wants him.

And then his tongue is gliding against Crowley’s and he gasps against his mouth, because oh, the tongue flickering into his mouth is forked, how _naughty_ , Aziraphale does so enjoy a nice surprise, he can trace the seam with his own tongue and Crowley can pant wetly against his ear and it _tickles_ , how delicious, and Crowley makes such wonderful sounds when Aziraphale nibbles at his earlobe, and he scrabbles so urgently at Aziraphale’s back, and yes, yes, the jacket is unnecessary, Aziraphale feels too big for his skin, and Crowley’s jacket too has got to go, and all of that has to be attended to but also Crowley’s mouth is wet and red and it is very, very important that it be tasted this very second and what’s a miracle between friends, really?

‘Mrrrph,’ says Crowley against his mouth, jerking forward slightly in surprise as his jacket vanishes. The movement brings the lower half of his body in contact with Aziraphale, who has been Making An Effort. As – to his delight – he discovers, so has Crowley.

‘Ohhhhhhh,’ Aziraphale breathes, resting his forehead against Crowley’s shoulder. Their groins rub together, sending little shocks of delight up his spine.

‘Nggggh,’ says Crowley, clutching at Aziraphale and pushing his hips forward.

‘Yes,’ says Aziraphale, reciprocating with alacrity. He grips Crowley’s hips and pries his legs apart. Shoves until they’re lined up. Crowley squirms and moans, a high breathless noise that strangles itself when Aziraphale’s hands move to his arse and pull his hips towards him.

‘Oh,’ says Crowley, head falling back against the wall with a _thunk_. The movement bares the long line of his throat and Aziraphale attaches himself to it, mouthing and licking and sucking while Crowley wriggles and Aziraphale grinds and the two of them grow achingly, breathlessly hard.

‘Crowley,’ says Aziraphale, against the underside of his chin, ‘Crowley, I want - ’

‘Yes,’ says Crowley. ‘Yessss, anything, just - ’

Crowley’s trousers are – well, Aziraphale assumes they’re possible to take off without supernatural aid. Or even without pliers and large quantities of dynamite, which would seem to be the next best thing. But they are certainly impossible to remove without detaching himself from the hectic bob of his Adam’s Apple, the jut of his shoulder, those lovely squirming hips.

‘Just,’ says Aziraphale, moving one hand away from Crowley’s arse. Crowley whines, and Aziraphale reaches up to swallow the sound. He snaps his fingers once and those thrice-damned trousers vanish[16]. He thumbs off each of his braces and fumbles at his own waistband, groaning in frustration against Crowley’s mouth. Then he sucks in a breath as he feels long fingers at his waist. Crowley manages to pry loose the button of Aziraphale’s trousers and eases down the zipper as Aziraphale holds his breath.

And then Crowley’s fingers worm in underneath Aziraphale's modest knee-length underclothes and close about Aziraphale’s cock and the angel forgets to breathe entirely.

Long fingers, with a tremulous, inquisitive touch. Thumbing curiously at Aziraphale’s slit, forked tongue hissing a long appreciative sound wetly by Aziraphale’s ear.

‘I will praise thee,’ floats into Aziraphale’s head unbidden, ‘for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.’

Crowley’s hand is moving down Aziraphale’s length now, his twitching, febrile touch a maddening tease, flickering and tracing and withdrawing. He flitters and tickles and leaves a crawling trail of fire in his wake and never … seems … to be able … to settle … anywhere.

And Aziraphale is a reasonable fellow, but he thinks he’s left enough to his serpent’s initiative.

He circles Crowley’s wrist with his hand and gently lifts it away from his cock. Crowley’s eyes fly to his.

‘Angel, I - ’

And then Aziraphale wraps his hand around Crowley, and the breath rushes out of him in in a whoosh.

Crowley’s cock is long, slender, elegant. Finely made, like the rest of him. Aziraphale sucks at Crowley’s collarbone, mouthing at him as he moves his hand up and down. Crowley’s wet, he’s leaking profusely, what a bounty, what a gift, and when Aziraphale lifts his hands to lick at his fingers Crowley makes a noise like he’s been wounded and his eyes are wide, wide and yellow and staring at Aziraphale like he’s the sun and Crowley’s doom and Aziraphale wants, he wants, he _wants_.

He moves his hands to cup Crowley’s little buttocks and lifts, sliding his hands to the back of Crowley’s thighs. Crowley gawps at him before gulping and nodding violently, knitting his legs together at Aziraphale’s waist. The snakeskin of his boots chafes against the soft skin of Aziraphale’s arse. The sensation is … not without appeal, and maybe some other time they might – but for now …

Another snap and the boots vanish[17], and long mobile toes are kneading the soft dimpled rise of Aziraphale’s buttocks, sliding up and down luxuriantly, voluptuously, proprietorially, and Aziraphale moans against the corner of Crowley’s open panting mouth as his cock slipslides against Crowley’s, leaking and easing the way.

‘Angel,’ says Crowley, hips jerking forward, ‘Angel, pleassse, I - ’

‘What?’ says Aziraphale, biting at Crowley’s jaw. ‘Darling, anything, anything, tell me.’

Crowley shakes his head, helplessly, rolling against the wall. He arches his back and Aziraphale’s hands move up to steady him. His thumb brushes Crowley’s hole and Crowley spasms.

‘Hhhhhhh,’ he says.

‘Oh,’ breathes Aziraphale, ‘oh, _yes_.’

He snaps his fingers and a bottle of a nice, hypoallergenic, water-based lubricant appears[18].

He coats his fingers liberally with the stuff and slides one hand up, trailing the back of Crowley’s thigh lightly until he reaches his hole. He looks at Crowley deeply, searchingly, and receives a fervent nod in response. He circles Crowley’s hole delicately, keeping careful watch, and then slides in the tip of one finger.

‘Nnngggh,’ says Crowley.

‘Is that - ’

‘ _Yess._ ’

Aziraphale nods, then probes a little deeper. Crowley is breathing hard, hot wet little puffs stirring Aziraphale’s curls.

Aziraphale nuzzles Crowley’s throat, sighing, making himself comfortable as he plays, retreats, returns, ventures a little further.

When Crowley begins to push down on his finger, he adds another. Crowley lets out a high moan and trembles in Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale mouths up, up to Crowley’s chin, finds his mouth and presses a kiss to it, eagerly catching Crowley’s tongue and sucking it into his own mouth.

Three fingers now, deeper, deeper. Crowley’s rocking down onto Aziraphale’s hand and moaning into Aziraphale’s mouth, clutching at Aziraphale’s shoulders.

‘More,’ he hisses[19], tongue flicking out to lick an inelegant bifurcated stripe across Aziraphale’s lips, ‘more, I need, more.’

‘Yes,’ says Aziraphale, ‘yes, darling, yes.’

He takes his fingers out carefully, shushing Crowley’s whine of protest with his mouth, applies a generous libation of lubricant to his cock, lines himself up, and pushes in.

‘Oh,’ he says, or Crowley says, or both of them do. _Hot_ , he thinks, hot and snug, clinging and enfolding him like Crowley can’t bear to let him go.

‘You feel,’ he says, ‘darling, you feel - ’

Crowley’s mouth is hanging open, one hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and the other in his hair. His eyes roll back to look at Aziraphale and then he says ‘Move.’

Aziraphale shivers. Slides in a little further. Gasps as Crowley clenches around him.

‘Move,’ says Crowley. ‘Move, or sssso help me - ’

Aziraphale responds with a quick snap of his hips, and Crowley emits a guttural groan.

After that, it’s a little difficult to ignore the frantic, delicious drag on his cock, and Aziraphale gives up the attempt. Crowley tightens his thighs around Aziraphale’s waist and locks his ankles together, which frees Aziraphale to brace his hands on the wall by Crowley’s head and lose himself in the lavish, primal snare of Crowley’s body, of Crowley writhing and gasping beneath him, the heave of his thin chest against Aziraphale’s, the maddening friction of Crowley’s cock against Aziraphale’s belly, smearing clear fluid against his waistcoat.

_I could miracle it out, thinks Aziraphale, I’d always know it was there. Underneath._

And then he thinks again, deliriously, _I’ll keep it, I’ll make myself a new one, two new ones, ten new ones, I’ll never ever let another pair of eyes near it._

It’s all rushing in on him, the feel of Crowley, the heat of him, the long fingers clawing at him, the sweet high hurt-sounding noises he punches out of him with every grind of his hips, the slap of Crowley’s lovely cock against his belly, it’s all so close, so tight and hot and uncontainable, he gasps ‘Darling, I’m - ’

‘Yes,’ says Crowley, ‘Yessss,’ and he paws at him to come in for a kiss, wet and clumsy while Aziraphale’s chest presses Crowley back against the wall and he spills into his friend, long and hard.

As he comes back to himself, Aziraphale lifts his head to gaze at Crowley. Crowley’s eyes are a little glazed, and he passes his tongue over his lips. Aziraphale withdraws and Crowley moans luxuriantly at the obscene squelch of Aziraphale’s cock leaving his hole. He twitches, his ankle-bones digging into Aziraphale’s arse a little painfully.

Aziraphale’s hands move to Crowley’s arse, along his thighs, and then gently urge him to unlock his feet from behind Aziraphale’s back. Crowley’s legs slide down Aziraphale’s, unsteady. His cock is untouched, red and stiff. Aziraphale looks at it and licks his lips, watching it twitch under his gaze.

He took Crowley, he thinks, he held him up and _used_ him, he spent into him –

He’s reaching for Crowley’s shoulders before he knows what he’s doing, spinning him so his chest is pressed to the wall.

His hand flies up to his chest and he sighs at the sight before his eyes. Crowley’s arse – his tiny, perfect arse – is lifted, his legs spread. His thighs are shiny with sweat and lubricant, and his hole – an open, glistening pout, wet and slick – is smeared with Aziraphale’s spend.

‘Oh,’ says Aziraphale, dropping to his knees.

He reaches up reverent hands to cup Crowley’s thin arse, thumbs pulling the cheeks apart. Crowley hisses a little, sound transmuting into a long moan as Aziraphale leans forward to take a lick.

A little lick, just one, up that sweet narrow creek. And another, because the taste of himself on Crowley’s skin is too much of a gift to ignore.

And then Aziraphale adjusts his grip, positions himself more comfortably between Crowley’s spread thighs, and gives himself over to feasting.

Crowley’s smell here is potent, a thing of pith and sulphur, of loam and immemorial elms, of the Garden and the Pit, and Aziraphale wants to rewrite every cell of his own vessel so he carries the print of it. He rubs his face against the inside of Crowley’s thighs, once, twice, again until he feels Crowley squeeze him. He rears back up and presses his lips to Crowley’s hole. He presses Crowley’s cheeks together until they compress his face, he dives in with his tongue and swirls.

Crowley trembles, he quakes, he rocks back against Aziraphale’s face, against Aziraphale’s eager questing tongue. He clenches and flutters around Aziraphale, and Aziraphale muffles his moan against him. And then he flexes, just enough that Aziraphale can feel his own spend trickle out of his hole.

Aziraphale moves back, entranced, watching the steady thin trail down, down to where Crowley’s bollocks hang and Crowley shivers, sensitive. Incandescent in his profane innocence.

Aziraphale leans forward, curling his tongue to catch the stream. He licks a path back up to Crowley’s hole, and then attaches his lips firmly and sucks. He feels Crowley’s thighs tremble, he gentles him with his hands, he murmurs soothing nothings against the rise of his arse. And then he returns, slurping, gorging himself, as though Crowley’s a rare and delicate fruit and Aziraphale could flay him alive with his tongue, make his way to the very heart of him. The soaring alchemy of the taste of his spend in Crowley’s hole, oh, there’s nothing like it in the world, nothing will ever – could ever – compare.

It’s only when he feels the movement of Crowley’s arm that he starts back, patting Crowley’s thigh absently at Crowley’s whine of protest.

Crowley has a hand on his cock – neglected, painful-looking – and Aziraphale’s hand shoots out to take Crowley’s wrist. He can’t speak, mouth full of ejaculate and spit, but he squeezes warningly, and Crowley lets out a shuddering sigh and nods, letting Aziraphale pluck his hand away.

And he’s been so good, his darling, so patient, so long-enduring, that Aziraphale thinks he deserves a reward.

He sits back on his heels and presses the back of Crowley’s thighs gently. Taking the hint, Crowley turns, facing Aziraphale again. His eyes are wild and his chest is heaving and Aziraphale thinks that if they kissed now, Crowley could taste Aziraphale, suck his spend into his own mouth, partake for once of Aziraphale’s feast.

And maybe one day there will be time for that. Time for that and other things.

But for now …

Aziraphale moves his hands to Crowley’s hips – a steadying, guiding pressure – and opens his mouth around Crowley’s cock.

And the thin, shocked gasp Crowley utters – well, it’s absurd, because honestly, has Crowley _never_ watched Aziraphale at a mealtime? Did he think Aziraphale would stint himself in this?

No, not when Aziraphale can suck Crowley’s cock into his mouth, when he can savour Crowley along with the taste of himself, when he can tongue at the slit and coat Crowley with his release, when he can let go with a long obscene pop, spit and come running down the side of his lips and chin, when he can look up at Crowley and see him stare back, tears beginning to sparkle in his eyes.

Not when he can lean forward, running his tongue up the underside of Crowley’s length, gathering up pre-come and his own ejaculate and saliva back into his mouth, not when he can move down the other side, not when he can open his mouth around his bollocks, hanging lewdly, not when he can mouth and tongue and lick and suck and slurp, such rich, filthy sounds.

Not when he can admire Crowley’s cock, standing proud and slicked with a gorgeous, obscene sheen, bathed, baptised in everything they have done. Not when Aziraphale can rub his face against it, feel its heft in his hand, then his tongue, moan in satisfaction as it bulges out of one cheek, then the other. Not when he feels trembling fingers in his hair and groan his approving assent.

Not when he relaxes his jaw and takes Crowley further, further, until flame-red curls tickle his nose. Not when Crowley wails and clutches convulsively at his hair.

‘Mmmmmmmmmmm,’ he says around his mouthful, and Crowley whimpers.

Aziraphale eases off a little and then dives back in. Acting on a superabundance of gluttony, he lets his fingers wander to Crowley’s hole, open and wet and slick, and lets one finger tease around the rim.

Crowley yelps, then squirms so Aziraphale’s finger is nestled firmly inside. Aziraphale’s other hand squeezes Crowley’s hip in approval. He withdraws, just to exult in the soft, rich squelch his finger makes leaving Crowley’s hole, and plunges in two.

By the time Aziraphale has three fingers in Crowley’s hole, his friend is rocking frantically down onto Aziraphale’s hand and back into his throat, letting out constant, helpless little sounds. Aziraphale tightens his grip on Crowley’s hip, because he can, because he’s allowed, and rubs and twists and glories in Crowley’s convulsive clutch at his curls, the feel of his cock, hot and heavy and thrumming with an inescapable and vital potential.

He sucks, hard, feels Crowley’s wail before he hears it, grabs Crowley’s arse to tell him _Indulge me, I want this, give it to me_ , and then Crowley’s emptying himself down Aziraphale’s throat, long and hard. Fire and brimstone, elegant and magnificent and unconstrained and _his_.

Aziraphale swallows most of it, and then lets a little run down his chin, because he’s eaten late-summer peaches and he knows that the best part – the uncontestably best part – is the sensation of the fruit bursting on your tongue and dribbling down your chin while you chuckle in indulgence and poorly-feigned embarrassment at your own human clumsiness.

Or so he’s always thought, until Crowley – nearly toppling over – reaches blindly for him and drags his tongue over his chin and into his mouth.

_Oh, better_ , thinks Aziraphale, moaning as Crowley’s tongue slithers into every secret place against his, _better, far better_.

He flutters in Crowley’s arms.

He even thinks he swoons.

* * *

‘So,’ says Aziraphale later, ‘what did we learn?’

They’re lying on the floor, neither being much inclined to move. Crowley generously used a miracle of his own to clean them up, for which Aziraphale is profoundly grateful – he really doesn’t know how he could have explained that one. Crowley’s lying with his head on Aziraphale’s chest, and Aziraphale’s hand is drawing lazy circles on his back.

‘Learn?’ says Crowley, raising his head to stare at Aziraphale. He grins. ‘ _I’ve_ learned I should pisssss you off more often.’

‘I wasn’t,’ begins Aziraphale, and coughs as he catches Crowley’s eye. ‘Well. Perhaps a little – a little vexed.’

‘Well, I should vexxxxx you more often, then.’

Aziraphale sniffs and turns his head, and is not at all mollified by Crowley leaving biting little kisses up the side of his throat to his cheek. Not even a little bit.

‘Is it an occasion now?’ asks Crowley. Aziraphale turns his head to look at him.

‘Occasion?’

Crowley looks at him. ‘The tea. The tea I brought you?’

‘The Da Hong Pao?’

Crowley nods. ‘You could do body shotsss.’ At Aziraphale’s expression, he sighs and says ‘Drink it off me. I’ve – I’ve seen it done.’

‘With tea?’ Aziraphale is dubious.

‘N – no,’ allows Crowley. He burrows into Aziraphale, who can feel the warmth of his cheeks against his skin. ‘It was – shut up, it was just a thought.’

Aziraphale’s hand moves up to stroke his hair. ‘I wouldn’t,’ he says.

‘I _know_ \- ’

‘Not with this tea,’ Aziraphale hastens on. ‘It – perhaps a Lapsang Souchong.’

He’d need to think about flavours and temperatures, of course – while Crowley could undoubtedly stand it, Aziraphale is not immediately moved to ardour at the thought of slurping scalding hot tea off Crowley’s prone form.

Which is not to say the idea is _entirely_ without merit.

‘Champagne,’ he offers at length, ‘champagne seems the more traditional way to celebrate.’

‘The Pommery,’ says Crowley, brightening.

‘Yes,’ says Aziraphale. ‘If I only had it to hand.’

He looks dolefully at Crowley until he lifts off him and gestures.

'There you are,' says Crowley, with a flickering, indulgent grin, and gestures with the bottle. ‘I’ll get the glasses, shall I?’

Aziraphale takes the bottle from him and eases the cork out.

‘No need,’ he says, lying down and beckoning Crowley to follow.

[1] And by a loaf of bread Aziraphale means a good _coq au vin_ preceded by an amuse-bouche of ox-tongue in spruce and juniper, and followed with Mother Shipton’s lemon posset, for which only Aziraphale has the recipe.

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[2] For preference, a 1961 Bordeaux. Aziraphale’s not too fusseda.

a Although he would prefer the Latourb.

b Or the Mouton Rothschild is also perfectly acceptable.

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[3] And also a good recording of the 1951 production of Parsifal at Bayreutha.

a And potentially a nice platter of Sally Lunn’s best Bath buns.

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[4] Crowley.

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[5] Or a doora.

a Or a pillarb.

b Or really any vertical and unyielding surface, Aziraphale’s not picky.

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[6] Aziraphale’s strategy towards the vagaries of musical movements is to wait. Eventually, after five or six decades, the wheat will be sorted from the chaff and be pressed into the better class of musical theatre or even – Heaven forfend – new opera. And then Aziraphale will gather it unto his bosom. The rest – well, Aziraphale need never have bothered, really, need he?

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[7] Only one of which Crowley actually ate, if Aziraphale recalls. He was, however, extremely attentive while Aziraphale ate his.

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[8] In the _crime passionel_ sense, rather than the ‘Of Christ’ sense.

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[9] Aziraphale doesn’t want to flog a dead horse, but he does think this is _quite_ important.

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[10] Not that Aziraphale can remember, at any rate. He was, as we have mentioned, a thought distracted.

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[11] Aziraphale is, to be fair, extrapolating the ‘ravager’ bit, from the admittedly unscientific starting dataset of one observation. But nevertheless.

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[12] A walla.

a Or, as mentioned before, really any sturdy vertical surface.

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[13] Aziraphale has lived too long to entirely discard superstition – which is simply observation of cause and effect, understanding that a link exists without understanding _why_. Wall A was clearly not getting results.

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[14] It’s the wrong wall, but needs must when demons fail to drive.

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[15] The collision between the unstoppable force of Aziraphale’s natural primness and the immovable object of the wall makes for a pretty reasonable facsimile of a sultry lounge. Again, Aziraphale has no idea he’s doing it.

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[16] Vaguely, he thinks that that miracle will take some explaining.

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[17] This miracle, too, will take some explaining.

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[18] To explain this one, Aziraphale will invent a motor-vehicle-related emergency in conjunction with a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of lubricant. Upstairs is unconvinced by the story, but _is_ convinced that the cover-up is more interesting than the real story, and so lets the matter drop.

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[19] It is a truth universally acknowledged that it is impossible to hiss a word without a sibilant, so Crowley’s feat is especially commendable in this regard.

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**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr handle is [itsevidentvery](https://itsevidentvery.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to come yell with me there.
> 
> A handy-dandy rebloggable link for this fic is [here](https://itsevidentvery.tumblr.com/post/613853301558116352/four-times-aziraphale-tried-to-get-crowley-to-pin) if you are so inclined.


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